


The Fall

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Ficlet, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Pain, Rape, Spoilers S02Ep06, Spoilers S2Ep02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Keeping the baby conceived from rape was Malcolm's decision, but it became one more choice that was inevitably stolen away from him.Ficlet diverges from "Speak of the Devil" and jumps to "Head Case."
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Miscarriage.

He’s still locked in the room with Professor Jonah Shaw, inside the Catholic church on Mott Street. Help is on the way and Malcolm’s father is in his ear, like a demon perversely coaching him to exorcism.

Professor Shaw’s face contorts and he postures like a gargoyle, the psychosis manifesting in muscular tics and guttural speech. What Malcolm is encountering is not a man, though. It is Abaddon the Destroyer.

Though Malcolm strikes him with the candle stand carved of solid wood, Abaddon comes for him anyway. With more strength than what any mortal ought to have, the man known to Malcolm as Jonah Shaw overpowers him and casts him to the floor. Malcolm’s phone skitters along the cold marble. Shaw lashes out as though he will tear out Malcolm’s throat with his teeth.

He produces a knife smeared with pigmented oil, tinged a sickly green, almost pustulent in appearance. Malcolm forces himself to relax, knowing he will be more susceptible to lead poisoning if it enters his bloodstream through a wound.

“There is no demon inside of you,” repeats Malcolm.

“We are many.” 

Malcolm yelps when the paint smears beneath his chin. A laugh like multiple blades sawing dead wood rushes from Jonah’s throat.

“But we like you,” rumble the voices from Jonah’s throat. Fingers and joints anointed with colored grease bend into claws which tear at Malcolm’s belt and the fastenings of his trousers. Malcolm can hardly believe it when he is bare bottomed on the cold floor. His cheeks stick to the chilled, dry surface. 

“What the-- no! Jonah, no!” shouts Malcolm. His palm strikes Jonah’s chest. Jonah collapses onto him, wheezing and coughing from loss of breath, and by erratic movements, he knees Malcolm in the sides. Malcolm rolls over, constricted by his crumpled pants, his elbows and knees scrabbling to get away.

His cheek slams into the floor, cold as the grave, as Jonah mounts him. His pants rip, loud enough to be a popped seam. 

“Abaddon enters you,” declares Jonah in a shattered refrain, his voice rolling and cracking. He moves fiendishly on top of Malcolm. Malcolm gapes in a scream which deflates into agonized whimpers. He hears the squelch before he feels it-- a penis slicked with pustulent colored oil, injecting him with tainted colors, tearing pain, a touch of hellfire, marking him with demon seed.

“No, no,” he moans. He is violated in the warmest coat he owns.

“The spawn will take blood and flesh of sinners,” cackles Jonah. He sprawls on the floor, his feet oriented towards Malcolm’s broken face. Jonah touches his penis. Malcolm’s blood transfers onto his fingers. In fresh red, the madman writes the name of the being who will sire Malcolm’s firstborn: Abaddon. Abaddon. Abaddon.

* * *

Malcolm blinks at the paper that he’s writing on. A single character stares back at him. It’s a name, of something that was never human.

“You need to go home, Malcolm,” says Dani. Her light touch on his sleeve is one of the few times when Malcolm doesn’t flinch from another person.

“I have to help you guys crack this before…” Malcolm swallows. He gingerly gets to his feet and gestures at his abdomen. His stomach isn’t anywhere near drooping. He feels some stretching around his groin, but no one who didn’t know him would suspect his condition at thirteen weeks.

The baby’s now grown to the size of a lemon and is a sour lemon who hates cheese, which has thwarted Malcolm’s fallback of eating cheesy carbs after an emotional episode.

Gil must’ve been listening for the sound of Malcolm’s chair. His door swings open predictably.

“I’ll give you a ride, Bright. After we stop for food,” says Gil. “I already called it in.”

“It’s not necessary,” says Malcolm.

“I chauffeured last time,” says Dani. “And since I can’t make you grilled cheese, your better option is the man buying you food. Night Bright.” The brusqueness of her goodbye is gentled by a quick squeeze on Malcolm’s hand.

“C’mon, if you don’t want to head to your place, where else?” asks Gil.

Twenty minutes later, Malcolm is opening a recyclable cardboard container filled with rice and lamb kebabs slathered in a yogurt sauce. It’s one of the few dairy items that will nourish him.

“Next time I pick our hang out,” complains Gil.

As much as Gil loves him, they’re definitely not eating inside the Dodge Coronet. The car took some pretty bad dents that required serious body work. Malcolm stands on the sidewalk in front of The Kenmare Hotel where the architect was murdered, chewing through the haunted history of the establishment.

“Don’t even think about going in there alone to poke around,” says Gil. He’s eating strips of beef wrapped in lettuce and a toasted flour wrap.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” claims Malcolm. “Can’t hold it.”

“If you’re not out in fifteen, I’ll come find you,” says Gil before Malcolm strides into the hotel.

Once he answers the call of nature, he figures that he has a few minutes to revisit the scene of the crime. Malcolm feels safer knowing that Gil will look for him if he gets lost in his head.

Gil’s the only person who’s respected Malcolm’s personal decisions without making him feel worse. Malcolm did not bring further charges of assault to court after NYPD apprehended Jonah Shaw. Once he recovered from the severe reaction to the medication for acute lead poisoning, Malcolm needed to deal with the fact that the barbiturates in his system caused the Plan B pill to fail. 

The hospital treated him for the assault and the exposure to lead paint. He had suffered abdominal pain and fatigue, assumed that his body would reject any resultant pregnancy. A check-in at the doctor’s, which included lab tests based on his urine sample, disabused Malcolm of the false notion that one thing would go his way.

Between the extra vivid dreams brought on by his pregnancy and, for the baby’s health, tapering himself off of the medication that would’ve helped him cope and electing to keep the baby, Malcolm only confided in a psychiatrist, the OBGYN, and his boss.

To be honest, if Malcolm had been able to pick himself up from the floor and pull on his big boy pants, he would have done it, so that he could keep working homicide. Dani and a uni wrestled a psychotic Jonah Shaw into the police cruiser. JT straight up carried him out of the church because Malcolm couldn’t walk.

If he hadn’t absolutely needed to demonstrate that he could work upon his physical recovery, Malcolm wouldn’t have leaned on Gil beyond providing semi-regular verbal confirmations. Gil was the first person, besides Malcolm’s doctors, who knew that Malcolm chickened out of the abortion.

“Don’t do that to yourself, Bright. You had to pick which option was the lesser evil. Every day that you come in here, ready to work. Every night when you clock out and you’re home by yourself. Keep me updated,” says Gil.

Gil may not have been on the scene during the worst arrest of Malcolm’s career, but he sure as heck wasn’t leaving Malcolm alone, or giving Malcolm too many opportunities to skip meals.

Malcolm’s spirits improve after he returns the bathroom key to the hotel attendant. Dinner and a mystery. Gil did care about him. His immediate concern about the victim, Lyle Reynolds, settles into curiosity for The Kenmare Hotel itself. He returns to the fourth floor, after a quick google search verifies where one of the Bowery Ripper’s alleged victims had disappeared.

The Bowery Ripper had crashed the hotel party in 1963, and he must’ve been white, fit, and good looking to have blended in at a scene of psychedelic-fueled orgies. Very possibly, Ripper engaged in sex with the young woman who went missing from that party. She would’ve been loaded with drugs and cum before the Bowery Ripper finished her. After satiating his sexual drive, Ripper would’ve craved violence.

Malcolm is so lost in his ponderings that he almost steps into the air when the elevator doors open. The car is not on the same level, stuck on a level above Malcolm's floor. At first, Malcolm feels very foolish with one foot on nothing. Then he hears footfalls clumping vigorously. Balanced on a single sole, a light push sends him careening into a belly flop, right down the elevator shaft.

Malcolm doesn’t have time to put his hands out. It’s too late for both of them. The elevator cable squeals, but he’s too far gone on the reinforced concrete, when the elevator car descends like a carriage bound for Malcolm’s appointment with death.

* * *

Malcolm cracked his head, but more importantly, also the case.

Gil did indeed find him almost immediately after the fact. The elevator doors were malfunctioning, unable to close, when Gil hustled up the stairs. He called Malcolm’s phone repeatedly and was horrified to track the sound of Malcolm’s ringtone from the elevator shaft. Gil didn't take long to get a bus and teams of police to lock down the building. No one, including construction workers, can leave.

An emergency team rescues an unconscious Malcolm from the basement level. They also uncover old bones.

Rupert Swann, despite being wheelchair bound, is arrested; his boot prints on the fourth floor tying him to the attempted murder of a criminal investigator. He is older, worn down by his own losses, so the Bowery Ripper reveals himself and names Lyle Reynolds as his final victim.

Gil brings flowers, mums, to the maternity ward.

“How bad is it?” he says bluntly to Malcolm.

“They’re observing me because of the concussion. It’s mild,” says Malcolm. He can’t meet Gil’s face, but he grabs on tightly when Gil’s hands pass over the guardrail of the hospital bed. Malcolm nods to himself after Gil squeezes him.

“So I’m really awake. This isn’t an elaborate delusion pieced together by my fragile psyche,” says Malcolm. “Which means… which means I can finally go home.”

When Malcolm collapses, Gil moves in to catch him. It’s difficult for Malcolm to figure out if he should comfort his old friend even in the midst of his turmoil.

“I’m here, kid. What happened?”

“It’s just me going home, Gil. My baby didn’t…” Malcolm’s lip twists before his face ends up buried in Gil’s sweater. The light gray color plainly shows where Malcolm’s tears soak the gentle fabric.

“I’m glad that you made it. I am so sorry, but thank God you’re still kicking,” says Gil. He kisses the top of Malcolm’s head and doesn’t let go even when Malcolm can’t hold himself up.

* * *

Malcolm is surprised when Gil turns up on his doorstep with a bag of food. 

“I’m resting okay, Gil,” insists Malcolm. “My temperature’s fine, no infection. Do we really want to talk about blood clots from the unmentionables?”

“Eat up, kid.” Gil pops the lid to the foil container of cheesy fries sprinkled with grilled onion and crumbled bacon.

Despite himself, Malcolm’s fork digs in. The fries are probably as nutritious as hot garbage, but he missed being able to enjoy cheese. It hadn’t occurred to him to order at least a cheddar from the grocery for delivery.

“How’s your head?” says Gil.

“I’ll be ready to come back next week,” assures Malcolm.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” retorts Gil. “Back in the hospital, you didn’t know if you were awake or dreaming. Can you tell the difference now?”

“Oh yeah. It hurts so much, Gil, that I don’t doubt for one second that I’m experiencing reality as is,” rejoins Malcolm. They sit together, sharing the pain of the moment, both feeling grounded in one another’s company.

“Was it bad, while you were under?” asks Gil.

“Believe it or not, I was happy. Everything wrong in my life was fixed. My mother drank because she was having a good time. Ainsley was a doctor. I caught the killer. With my Glock pistol, that was wild.” Malcolm pauses to grab beverages to pair with their meal. He makes it a point to serve two glasses of whiskey.

“And yes, you were there, Gil. Sort of,” says Malcolm, pre-empting the question looping through Gil’s mind.

“Huh. Was I different, too?”

“You were there. Is that good enough?” says Malcolm, ducking his face.

“Dream me better have showed up and looked after your crazy ass,” says Gil, a bit more emphatically to lighten the mood.

“Gil, you were there for me and my little girl,” says Malcolm. He gives Gil a few moments to lift his jaw off the floor.

“Then I’m lucky that you woke up at all,” decides Gil. “Thanks for coming back. It’s good to have you, kid. Circumstances being what they are.”

“Here’s to reality.” Before he brings it to his lips, Malcolm raises his glass. Gil meets him with a gentle clink. “I’m doing better despite getting the shaft. In that elevator shaft.”

“For Christ’s sake, Bright!” Gil sounds mad over spitting his drink, but Malcolm gets a cracked smile.

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> I (love and) blame KateSamantha for this.


End file.
